Page 70 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)

MERCY

M y parents instilled in me a passion for knowledge, for in-depth analysis of my interests, for letting them swallow me until I discovered every angle there was to see.

Homeschooling became a philosophy. Every situation provided an opportunity for learning.

Boredom was a portal. Debating was growth. Loving was sociology.

It molded me into someone who competes with a problem, not a person.

I never had to strive to be the best in the class or outscore my peers.

My motivation has always been rooted in solving issues and being a better version of myself.

Even in my badass attorney days, it was less about beating the opposing side and more about unveiling truth and conquering the case.

That perspective shaped the need to win into the desire to persevere. To become.

I’ve never been more appreciative of that than I am today.

It’s been thirty-nine hours since I watched Emma get murdered, devoured by the flames of a madman. I’ve spent most of that time reflecting and scrutinizing, dissecting these horrid events much like my mother taught me to study simple subjects, like snakes and religions.

Through it all, I’ve had an oppressive boulder stuck in my throat.

Desperate for a break and a breath of fresh air, I saunter up to the penthouse rooftop pool. The upper level is primarily their personal recreation space. It also has a movie room, a weight room, a sauna and changing area, another family room, and a couple of the guys’ bedrooms.

As soon as I step onto the terrace, the humid breeze envelops me with the comforting fragrance of New Orleans—moss and magnolia trees, cypress and a trace of Creole.

The blanket of stars cocoons me like a Snuggie of blissful tomorrows, and the city lights glimmer in the distance. Despite the shadows and alleyways, the city still bustles with the culture that feeds my veins. It still feels promising.

Ryker is swimming laps. He comes up here every night, and I generally allow him to have that private retreat. It’s his escape from his responsibilities and regrets, from the kingdom he rules over. Maybe I’m holding out for a piece of that temporary sanctuary.

Both of us have been processing the past day and a half.

He’s worked and raged, watched over Remy and held me as I spiraled.

I’ve cycled through a range of emotions.

I stared at the wall for hours through a fog of unrelenting tears.

I rocked my precious boy, both guilt-ridden and grateful for the privilege.

I berated myself for not catching on to Bryce sooner, for not getting Emma away from him, for not circumventing all of this by listening to Ryker as we stood by my car all those years ago.

I’ve struggled with survivor’s guilt and empathized with how distraught my father must have felt after my mother’s senseless death.

Mostly, I’ve been wondering what winning could possibly look like in this situation, after such catastrophic loss.

Because the bad guy is tied up in counting room two. And he seems to think we’re playing a game.

But right now, all I want is to dip my feet in the pool and watch the man who makes everything better fight his demons with a breaststroke.

I take a seat on the travertine, allowing my legs to dangle in the water and relishing how refreshing it is compared to the sultry air.

Ryker finishes his lap in the opposite direction before somersaulting to push off the wall and head back my way. His glacial blues rise to mine, matching the sparkling hue surrounding him, as he transitions into a freestyle swim.

He’s gorgeous out here. His sculpted physique is outlined by the silvery moonlight, beads of the pool water dancing on his golden-beige skin, his ink glistening with the secrets the world never sees. And his spirit is free from the constraints of leadership.

When he reaches me, he pulls up between my legs and smooths back his dark hair, a waterfall of his hobby cascading off him. He doesn’t smile like he normally would. His dimple doesn’t heckle me. His eyes don’t crinkle.

We’re both harboring a host of burdens. And mine are his.

That’s most apparent as he glides his strong hands over my bare thighs, noting my shorts and tank top before his concerned gaze meanders all over my face. “I’m glad you’re here. Do you want to swim? It might relieve some stress.”

I shake my head, drinking him in. “I’m happy to watch you.”

“Let me get you something to eat.”

Ryker is a fixer. He cooks and draws me baths, wipes my tears and watches mind-numbing documentaries with me because he can’t change what happened.

He’d do nothing but that every day for all time if it meant I’d be okay.

And I love him for it. For the heart that wants to be my cushion.

To the world, he probably seems cold and calculating.

His lifestyle denotes that. But to me, he’s the plush grounding in my house of shards.

“No. I’m not hungry.” I slide my hands over his. “I needed some air. Needed you.”

Leaning forward, I press my lips to his, and his wet palms rise to frame my face.

I tangle my arms behind his head, let his tongue command mine, and bask in the tethering that is full of heartache and healing—the first seeds of what will likely be a difficult fruit to bloom, but healing nonetheless.

With a final nip on his bottom lip, I pull back, my forehead resting against his. “Your brothers are ready downstairs.”

Surprise shades his features. “Can you handle that tonight?”

I straighten my spine, tracing the curve of his scruffy jaw with my index finger. “I’m the one who initiated it with Axel. I don’t see the point in waiting. There’s no mystery to unlock here. Just a psychopath who stole a whole lot from me. From us. From so many people.”

Ty and Gage delivered Bryce here yesterday, but I was so distraught that I requested that whatever typically transpired in counting room two be put on hold until I could get myself together.

Ryker argued. He wanted him wiped off the face of the earth as swiftly as possible.

I didn’t disagree with that thought process.

But I told him I needed time to weed through my mess of emotions so that if I had questions or something to say to Bryce, I’d have the chance.

Ryker was fine with offering me time, though he preferred that I be left out of it so none of it weighed on me.

He also firmly stated that I wouldn’t be speaking to Bryce under any circumstances.

That wasn’t shocking. Axel stepping in on my behalf was though.

He insisted I had the right to be heard if that was what was necessary to bring me peace.

In a strange turn of events, while discussing the appropriate time to kill a lunatic, I felt wholly and completely enfolded by this family. That’s why Ryker dropped it. He saw the sense of belonging cloaking me and knew that’s what I needed.

“And you feel …” His eyes dart out to the twinkling city lights, a disbelieving huff leaving his lips as he shrugs. “Settled?”

That huff makes sense because what will normal or settled or okay ever look like? Still, I understand what he’s asking.

A drop of my anguish trickles down my cheek, my throat nearly closing, my lips determined to morph into a sad-clown face.

“This grief is all-encompassing, and part of me doesn’t want it any other way.

Emma was so sweet and pure. She deserved so much better.

” I swipe at the tears, hating that I can barely open my mouth without them falling.

“But so does Remy. And I can’t keep thinking about Bryce.

I can’t let what he did take me away from Remy, mentally or emotionally, like it did when …

I can’t be a shell of the mom he needs.”

Ryker thumbs away my pain and cradles my cheek, the remorse mantling his features overwhelming. “We’ll get through this. What happens in that room has nothing to do with you, not tonight or any other time. My brothers and I will take care of it, and then it will be over.”

He’s so wrong. It has everything to do with me, and I’m more than willing to welcome that.

After Dalton assaulted me, so many things were muddled in my mind. I couldn’t separate the good from the bad or even the heroes from the villains. So, I ran from it all. It was a means of survival at the time, and I’ve forgiven myself for that.

But I’ve also grown. Ryker doesn’t see it, but asking me to close my eyes to what they do here would be running in another sense. I can either look in the mirror and accept what I see, or I can avoid my reflection and pretend I’m someone else.

The truth is, neither option would be pretty all the time. But only one is real.

I’ve contemplated Bryce’s angle and considered what his goal was, his willingness to back himself into a corner just to cause me pain.

Until an hour ago, I wasn’t sure it mattered, but it gnawed at me.

And I’m glad it did because it finally illuminated the heart of everything we had endured, everything Bryce intended.

Killing him doesn’t make us victorious per se because Emma is still dead, my parents are still dead, and scars—both visible and invisible—will forever litter my body and soul.

But there is a victory in what he left behind.

I lift my knees to my chest and spin, planting my feet on the travertine and standing up to get him a towel. “I already spoke with Axel about this. I’ll stay in the penthouse, but I’m going to have my say with him. And then you’re going to handle it accordingly.”

Ryker looks briefly taken aback. I don’t blame him. That sounded bossier than I’d intended, but it will all make sense in a little while.

“You went over my head for permission.” His voice is husky as he swims to the end and climbs up the stairs, dripping all over the tiles before snatching the towel I’m holding for him.